Fool Me Once
by bowtiesarecool17
Summary: Voldemort is back but this time, England will not sit by as the Dark Lord wreaks havoc in his country. It's time to fight back and fight back he will. Rated T for swearing and violence
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Hetalia belong to me**

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Chapter 1

A warm breeze rustled through the leaves on the summer night of June 1995, tousling the choppy blonde locks atop a certain English man's head. Tired green eyes situated beneath prominent brows, fixed upon the front door of a large London home as the owner of said eyes wearily made his way up the front path. England heaved a sigh as he fished his keys out of his pockets, actions slow and sluggish after a long day of running around London. His Government had caused a minor catastrophe which England of course had to fix himself.

 _Hopeless the lot of them_ England grumbled internally. The sun had long gone down and the island nation was eagerly anticipating slipping into bed with a good book and forgetting about the world for a few hours.

 _First, though, a nice cup of tea is in order_ England thought to himself as he unlocked the door to his home and kicked off his shoes. Making his way into the kitchen England set the kettle to boil and gathered the ingredients for tea. Humming a gentle song to himself, the nation grabbed some milk out the fridge when pain suddenly lanced through his skull.

His body spasmed at the unforeseen onslaught of pain and his fingers, unable to maintain their grip, released the hold they had on the carton of milk. The carton split open upon contact with the hard tiles and the white liquid spread across the kitchen floor.

The pain in his head was unbearable. It felt like a hot poker was being shoved into each of his eyeballs and setting every nerve in his brain on fire. England let out a pained groan as he clutched at his head, pulling at clumps of hair. Where the hell was this coming from? England had been victim to some particularly nasty headaches over his many years but all of them paled in comparison to what he was currently experiencing.

His skull throbbed in time to his heartbeat, seeming to increase in volume until the only thing he could hear was the rush of blood through his ears and all logical thoughts were eradicated – swallowed up in his agony. Eyes clenched tightly, as if attempting to fuse themselves shut, the pained nation could do nothing but focus on his breathing in a vain attempt to alleviate the awful throbbing.

He could get through this, after all he was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Island; conqueror of half the world and king of the oceans, a mere headache could never hope to defeat him! These thoughts were quickly dashed, however, as his stomach convulsed violently in tandem to the sharp increase of pain in his skull. Attempting to rush to the sink before his last meal made an appearance, England's foot slipped on the spilt milk surrounding him and he plunged to the floor, cracking his head on the tiles.

His head now pounding internally as well as externally, the nation struggled to his feet once more, only to make it two steps before the contents of his stomach emptied themselves on the floor, creating a vile concoction of vomit and milk. England felt as though his skull were about to explode, the torment building in an ever increasing crescendo of pain. His knees gave out and he sank to the floor once more.

 _Make it end_ England mentally pleaded as he writhed on the floor. _Please stop this._ Terrible, anguished cries made their way past his lips; the torture lancing through his skull showing no indications of alleviating. England was aware of one last surge of pain before blackness swept over his vision and he was oblivious to the world.

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England awoke the next day to find himself laying in his own vomit and a puddle of milk. The pain in his head was mostly gone but he still felt weary and his stomach writhed threateningly at the stench surrounding him. His clothes were sodden from laying in the cold milk all night, the cool liquid causing goose bumps to rise along his chilled flesh.

Teeth chattering, England slowly pushed himself onto his feet and made his way to the bathroom, leaving wet footprints in his wake as milk squelched between the toes of his drenched socks. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was something to behold. Dried, flaking vomit smeared up the side of his face and matted into his hair. His favourite green sweater vest was in a sorry state and he feared he would never get the smell of old puke out of it. Turning to his shower he put the hot tap to full and stepped under the spray, not bothering to remove his clothes. He let the water wash away all the grime and hummed contently as the hot water pattered pleasantly against his icy skin. All the residual pain fell away along with the mess on his body and clothes, disappearing down the drain to hopefully never be seen again.

Thinking of the episode that occurred last night made a cold weight settle in England's stomach. That was no normal headache. That degree of pain only occurs when something dire happens to his country. Something truly awful must have happened last night. Realising this England finished cleaning up in a hurry. After dressing in a fresh set of clothing, he ran to the telephone and immediately began dialling his bosses number. As soon as his boss picked up the phone England began barraging him with questions about the welfare of his country.

"England. England! England stop! What on earth are you blathering on about? Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary occurred last night" the voice of prime minister John Major interrupted the nation.

"What? Are you positive?" England pressed

"Yes" came the exasperated reply, "Don't you think I'd know if some kind of catastrophe had befallen our country. Trust me, you're overreacting. I'm sure it was just a migraine"

England growled into the receiver. He _knew_ it was not a migraine. He could only assume that whatever horrendous events had occurred on his lands had yet to be discovered.

"Just keep me updated" he snapped before slamming the phone back on the receiver.

 _Bloody useless government!_

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Two week passed and then three and life continued as it always had for the citizens of England. The island nation had kept his eyes peeled and ears perked but there hadn't been even the faintest whispers of anything that could have triggered his episode. The intensity of the pain England felt was akin to some of his biggest disasters in history, there's no way whatever happened could have gone unnoticed for this length of time.

Unless …

Unless England had been looking in the wrong areas.

Grabbing his coat, England rushed out the door and into the London streets.

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England stood in the middle of the street, staring apprehensively at the door in front of him. The faded sign, creaking in the slight breeze, informed him that this was the pub known as The Leaky Cauldron. It had been 14 years since he had last stepped foot inside the world of his magical community and he was a bit nervous about doing so now.

His last dealings with the wizarding world had been during the first wizarding war. After that ended he had slowly started to neglect that side of his community, trusting their care to the Minister of Magic. His magical community was very small in comparison to his muggle side after all and with world meetings and political negotiations to be made he simply started to forget about his witches and wizards. Nothing to be done for it really.

 _Stop lying to yourself!_ England berated. He was loath to admit it but England was afraid. After the war had ended, the island nation had put as much distance between himself and magic as possible; hoping and praying that he could forget about it all. It was a vain hope. No amount of time or distance could make him forget the terrible sins his own citizen inflicted on his country – on himself. The war had left him terribly injured, he had thought it would be the end of him, but then his unexpected saviour came in the form of a babe no older than 12 months.

The nation thought back on the small child who had unintentionally saved them all. He hadn't heard anything about the boy in 14 years.

England snapped out of his reminiscing when he noticed the strange looks his citizens were shooting at him. He must look rather odd to them, stood staring at what they perceived as an abandoned building with a faraway look in his eyes.

Gathering his courage, England stepped into the pub. It was rather dim and dingy inside with not a lot of breathing space. Despite this, it was a very welcoming establishment that was quite popular among the wizarding world. The evidence of this being the packed interior. All manner of witches and wizards were loitering around the cramped space with a pint or two in their hands. A few of the patrons gazed at England with open curiosity as he entered but he paid them no mind. Striding past the bar, he offered a curt nod to the bartender, Tom, before ducking through back where he knew the entrance to Diagon Alley lay.

Diagon Alley was a hub of activity as always, though the atmosphere seemed more bleak than England remembered.

 _I'm probably just imagining things_ England thought to himself, though he could not ignore the whispers and wary glances shot in his direction.

Ignoring the curious stares he was receiving, the nation set out in search for a news stand. Spotting one nearby England hurried over and snatched a copy of the Daily Prophet from the counter and began reading; much to the chagrin of the young boy manning the stall.

England froze.

"Hey mister, are you going to pay for that?" the boy asked, overcoming his surprise at England's sudden appearance, "Hey mister?"

England couldn't hear him. He doubted he would have responded any differently even if he had. The young wizard snatched the paper out of his numb fingers, muttering about idiot freeloaders. Not that it mattered. England could still clearly see the words, as if they had been branded onto his retinas.

June 24th, the night of the last Triwizard tournament challenge, Harry Potter, accompanied by the dead body of Cedric Diggory, had returned to Hogwarts declaring the return of He Who Must Not Be Named.

It all made sense to him now. The 24th – the same night he had experienced pain like no other…

Voldemort was reborn.

..

..

..

He's back…

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 **A.N. Hey everyone! Thank you so much for reading the first chapter of my story I hope you enjoyed it. This is my first ever fanfiction so I'm sorry if it's not very good. I don't currently have the HP books on me so everything I write is from memory so there will most likely be some errors but if you notice them please point them out to me and I will do my best to fix it.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 **I am so so so sorry it took me so long to get this out! After the first chapter I moved out of home and started university and it kinda ate all my free time. I'm not 100% happy with this chapter either. I have rewritten it so many times but just decided to post it. I hope you all enjoy anyway :)**

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"Is it true?"

"I'm afraid so"

England slumped back into the chair with a heavy sigh of despair. He raked his hands through his already messy hair before dragging them down to rest over his face.

"This cannot be happening again" he mumbled into his palms.

Across the cluttered desk, Dumbledore eyed the country, his usually twinkling blue eyes dull, his face bearing a sombre expression.

"We had our suspicions from the beginning that he was not truly gone. It was only a matter of time before he found his way back" came Dumbledore's weary response.

England, slumped lower in his armchair, his gaze focused in the distance but his mind a million miles away. After stumbling upon the news in Diagon Alley that Voldemort was reborn, England had been at a loss for what to do. He had spent hours wandering around the streets in a daze, not aware of his actions or where his feet were taking him, lost in a whirlwind of memories and despair. He had eventually found himself in a pub, fully prepared to lose himself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle – or two.

The pub was dark and smelt mildly of mildew, but the bottles of liquor lining the wall behind the counter gleamed enticingly at him. Despite the early hour, there were already a scattering of witches and wizards occupying tables, nursing drinks of their own. All of them looked as grim as England.

They're probably here for the same reason as I, he mused.

Ordering a whiskey, England slid onto a barstool away from the other patrons. He was in no mood for chit-chat.

His mind was cycling through the first wizarding war on a never-ending cycle – the pain, the deaths.

He had fought side by side with his citizens back then and had watched as one by one they fell to the dark lord's power. It had slowly broken his will. He could feel his body becoming weaker and weaker as the shadow of evil consumed his country; strangling out all light and hope wherever it spread. Despite all of England's best efforts, Voldemort was winning the war and it was killing him. He was afraid. He was weak. He was dying…

England shook himself out of the dark memories.

'What am I doing?' he internally berated himself. From England's memory, the daily prophet was little more than a gossip rag, filled with lies and misconceptions. 'I can't sit here moping over a rumour. I need facts!'

England slid off the barstool with every intention of hunting down the truth, wherever it may be. His legs, however, had other intentions as they buckled under his weight and the nation barely managed to catch himself on the bar before falling flat on his face. Somehow during his musings, he had managed to consume more alcohol then he had intended. Despite this, the nation was not deterred from his pursuit of information. Turning to the middle-aged witch manning the bar, he pointed a wobbly finger at her.

"I need to use your owl" he slurred out, finger still pointed, albeit waveringly, at the witch.

She gave him a disgusted look, annoyed at having to do something other than run a rag over a glass.

"3 sickles" she grunted

"What?"

"3 sickles. To use the owl"

England rummaged his hand around his pockets, all whilst grumbling under his breath about his own people robbing him, and slammed a handful of coins on the counter. The witch picked out 3 bronze coins before walking out a door behind the bar. She returned a short time later with a very disgruntled looking owl. She placed the owl down on the counter in front of England and promptly returned to wiping glasses.

"What? No ink or parchment?" England called after her. She didn't look up from her glass so, grumbling again with more anger than before, England fumbled in all the pockets in his suit and managed to scrounge up a pen and an old receipt.

'This'll do´ He thought, turning the receipt to the blank side and uncapping his pen. He wrote only four words on the receipt before sending it off to its recipient and returning to his drinking.

'We need to talk'

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The following morning found the island nation in the presence of Albus Dumbledore; hair and clothes disheveled and the smell of hard liquor still lingering on his breath. After receiving a reply from Albus, he had immediately set off to talk to the man; skipping the return home to change, his need for information to pressing. It was a decision he was now regretting as he faced the impeccably, if not a little oddly, dressed wizard. Dumbledore knew his true identity having had dealings with each other in the past. He was the only man in the wizarding community who knew.

England could feel the beginnings of a migraine coming on from the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed and the bad news he was receiving was doing nothing to alleviate his pain. The nation massaged his temples before lowering his hands and shooting the elderly wizard a confused and frustrated glare.

"But how is this possible? He was hit with the killing curse; his body was completely destroyed! How can he be back?" he asked incredulously, gesticulating wildly with his hands.

"Tom went to great lengths to ensure his continued survival. Even I am not sure as to what dark magic he utilised to extend his life."

"I can't believe this" England started mumbling, despair overcoming him again.

For a while, the only sound in the office was the soft whirring and dinging of the magical knickknacks scattered throughout the room. Eventually, Dumbledore broke the silence with a question.

"You remember the prophecy, do you not?"

The prophecy. How could he forget? He was there the night it was made after all.

'…Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…'

Total bullshit if you asked England. How could a mere child be expected to fight the Dark Lord? Not even England, a near-immortal nation, could destroy Voldemort one on one, but a baby could?

England snorted in derision.

"Yes, I remember"

"Before we thought the prophecy to be fulfilled when Voldemort attacked the Potters, but now, with his return …"

"It is active again! Then the boy is in danger!"

"Yes I'm afraid so"

Albus fixed England with a pointed stare, blue eyes locked with green.

"I think, old friend, that it is time you were filled in on the events you have missed in your absence"

England felt a pang of guilt at this and lowered his gaze. Dumbledore had tried valiantly to contact the nation during his self-isolation but England had ignored his attempts – the letters sat in the drawer of an old, unused desk – unopened. England nodded his head in assent, eyes still lowered.

It was sometime later that Dumbledore finished his tale. He had recounted everything from the night Voldemort was destroyed to the present day. He had told England about the numerous attacks on Hogwarts, starting the same year Potter had joined the school, up until the Triwizard tournament. He recounted the story of how Voldemort reclaimed his body and how Dumbledore had revived his old Order of the Phoenix. And last of all, he talked extensively about Harry Potter – the boy who lived.

Despite this, England had a sense that Dumbledore had not told him everything, that he was withholding some crucial facts, but he decided not to press the matter. He was sure Albus would tell him when he thought the nation was ready.

Once Dumbledore had finished his tale, silence descended upon the office. England's head felt like it was close to bursting with all the new information he had been bombarded with. His magical community had been having troubles for some time it seems. The feeling of guilt was starting to make itself familiar in his chest. England should have been there to help.

"Will you fight with us again, England?" Dumbledore asked softy.

For a second England thought of refusing. His body could not forget the pain of the last war and his mind was instantly struck with terror. However, this reaction lasted no more than a heartbeat. Dumbledore watched as the nation's prominent brows furrowed over eyes suddenly filled with steely determination. England was frightened but he was a nation goddammit, and he would not be scared into submission by one of his own citizens.

When did I become so weak? England thought in disgust.

Filled with a fire in his soul that had been absent far too long, the nation locked eyes with the man seated across from him. Dumbledore was slightly taken aback by the ferocity in his gaze. He saw there a desire to fight that was reminiscent to the countries pirate days when he had sailed and conquered the world.

A small spark of hope ignited in his chest. The England of old was back. The England who fought by his side during many battles and who had the power to turn the tides of war. A smile graced his lips as England spoke two words that he had been longing to hear for fifteen years.

"I'm in."


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